


Ashes & Coal

by hexmionegranger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Cinderella Elements, Drama, F/F, F/M, Fairy Godparents, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Murder, Orphans, Plague, Princes, Prophecy, this got wildly out of control
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2019-10-07 12:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17365919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexmionegranger/pseuds/hexmionegranger
Summary: This is a story that has been told before. Or at least parts of it. Because, you see, Cinders was not the only orphan. And Charming was not the only prince. And while happily ever afters make good endings, in this story the happily ever after is really just the beginning.Orphans, princes, fairy godparents, intrigue, murder, and love await. For this is not just a story of glass and ashes, but also a story of steel and coal.And yet, we begin the same. Once upon a time, in a Kingdom far, far away…





	1. Once Upon a Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _some days are diamonds, some days are rocks_   
>  _some doors are open, some roads are blocked_   
>  _sundowns are golden, and they fade away_   
>  _but if I never do nothing,_   
>  _I'll get you back someday_
> 
> _cause you've got a heart so big_  
>  _it could crush this town_  
>  _and I can't hold out forever_  
>  _even walls fall down_  
>  \-- the lumineers, _walls_

_This is a story you have probably heard before._

_Or, at least, you’ve probably heard_ part _of it before._

_Because, you see. That’s the problem with these great love stories—the ones that seem so magical and attainable and enthralling. Eventually, they begin to take over everything. Little details, and even big ones, don’t matter as much. Next to that all encompassing love, the other stories change and fade and weaken._

_But this story was never just a story of_ one _great and beautiful love. At least, not the way that he remembers it. This was never_ just _a story of glass and ashes, but also one of steel and coal._

_The story that you know usually begins with “once upon a time…”_

_But this time, before the events here become a story that is told and altered and lost to time, it begins like this:_

Harry had lived in the cupboard under the stairs for as long as he could remember.

When he was eleven, all of that changed.

At least, he was pretty sure he was eleven. See, Harry didn’t actually know. As far as he could tell, it went like this: when he was a baby, his poor peasant parents had died of the black death, and he had been graciously taken in by a noble family. Once, one of their cooks had told him that he was the exact same age as the two little girls who belonged to the house. No one could tell him when his birthday was, or who his parents were, or even who _he_ was. No one, other than a few of the other servants, really seemed to care.

All he was was orphan Harry, who lived under the stairs, and cleaned the kitchen floor and built fires across the estate house. Orphan Harry, who was the same age as the twins but who barely spoke to them—they pretended he didn’t exist. Orphan Harry, with bad hair and bad eyes and bad manners (at least, according to most of the servants). And he was alone, until one day he wasn’t.

He knew he was eleven-ish because the twins had had a party not that long before. He had watched the cook ice their two separate cakes, carefully writing their names on top and taking eleven candles from Harry for each one. And then, just before he had trudged off to bed, the cook had glanced around and placed a cupcake in his hand, with a single candle in it. “Happy birthday, Harry,” the older woman had whispered, and Harry had eaten his cupcake alone, with tears in his eyes and love pounding through his chest.

But anyways. He knew he was eleven, then, and he knew that something was about to be very different.

It had started in the morning. The cook had told him to pack his things (which didn't take very long) and then one of her sons (Harry couldn’t keep them all straight, but only three of them worked at the estate as well) had shown him to a new room, in the basement by the kitchen, with two mattresses on the floor.

Harry had nearly forgotten the second mattress over the course of his day. By the time he returned to the new room it was hours later and he was exhausted. Except that as he was stumbling into the darkened room, he heard a noise.

A sniffle.

“Hello…?” he’d whispered, and then heard it again, this time coming from a pile of blankets that had appeared on the other side of the room.

“Um… are you okay?” he asked again, and walked as carefully as he could to the other bed, sitting down next to it. “My name’s Harry.”

The lump of blankets sniffed again, then rustled, and then a head popped out. Not _just_ a head, but the head of a girl who looked close to his age. Her face was surrounded by a halo of brown curls and her cheeks were splotchy and red and tearstained. She hiccuped and whispered something and Harry shook his head.

“I didn’t catch that,” he admitted.

“Hermione,” the blanket-girl said, louder this time. “That’s my name.”

“Oh,” Harry paused, frowning. “Why are you crying?” He asked, and then realized something else. “And why are you in my room?”

These were, evidently, the wrong questions to ask. The girl burst into sobs, shoulders shaking and nose running all at once. Harry froze, startled, but after a few cries she was able to calm herself down enough to speak again.

“My… my parents are dead,” the girl— _Hermione_ —explained. “The black death.”

Harry, despite himself, straightened up a bit. “Mine too,” he admitted. “When I was just a baby.”

This seemed to slow Hermione’s crying and she considered him very carefully. “Do you remember them at all?” She asked. When Harry shook his head no, Hermione threw her arms around him. “Oh, Harry,” she breathed, and he felt for a moment like this must be what _home_ was, “I’m so sorry.”

And so things changed.

Harry was no longer alone, he had Hermione. She was sad, yes, but also fierce and smart and funny. She actually seemed to care about Harry, and soon he had forgotten what it was like not to have a family of his own.

Things also changed around the house. Now that Hermione was there, she took over most of his work. She built fires, cleaned the kitchen, even helped the cook. At first Harry was glad for the company. And then one day the blacksmith _—_ the cook’s eldest son _—_ came for him. Harry became an apprentice, and then an assistant.

The twins changed too. Where they had ignored Harry, Hermione was another story. Harry had never known them to be cruel, but the twins—Parvati especially—delighted in making fun of the new girl in their midst. They were frequently dropping things just so she would have to clean them, or mocking her hair and her clothes and her “unfortunate bone structure”. Harry tried to stay out of it, but it bothered Hermione. It picked and poked at her heart, and there was nothing Harry could do about it.

The changes started slowly but soon were coming faster and faster _—_ they would settle into a rhythm and then be thrown back into chaos, expected to readapt. While there had once been dozens of servants, as Harry and Hermione grew the number seemed to drop. Eventually there were only a handful, and Harry and Hermione’s chores increased tenfold. Hermione now sewed clothes, and styled hair, and ran errands in town. Harry had slowly learned all of the trades, and he made tools and dishes, cared for the horses and chickens, and looked after the vegetable gardens.

Eventually, things settled into an easy pace. Late in the evenings, safe in their basement room, Hermione told Harry stories. She told him of the castle and its prince, who was young and notoriously single (and, if she could be believed, a ‘horrid man’ who was only going to ruin the world) and of the world beyond the estate walls. When she ran out of stories in her head, she read to him from the few books she had taken from her parents home, hidden in the folds of her skirt to prevent them being burned for carrying the plague.

Hermione also had things she called _theories_. They always seemed to start with “do you know what _I_ think…?” and end with Harry feeling like he’d gone on a very peculiar horse ride. One of her theories was that her parents hadn’t died of the plague at all, but had been poisoned because they had found out a secret about the King—even though she could never seem to come up with what the secret was. Another of her theories was that the household was running out of money, which was why most of the servants were gone and why they hadn’t had fresh cheese in a month.

Harry loved her theories, of course. Even if they were just as make believe as her stories.

His favourite was the one that began “do you know what _I_ think…?” and ended with the two of them leaving this place and getting to live somewhere where their family was more than just the two of them, where they didn't have to work until their fingers bled and then work some more, and where they would be able to live _happily ever after_.

* * *

Hermione wasn’t prone to many other ridiculous notions, other than her stories and her theories, and so when she burst into his workshop one day, hair even wilder than usual and face flushed as red as his fire, he listened to her.

“Harry,” she’d breathed, small hand pressed to her chest and something like magic glinting in her eye. “Harry, we have to go to the ball.”

Harry had known immediately what she was talking about, of course. It was the prince’s eighteenth birthday the next day—two weeks after the twins’s eighteenth and sometime around when he always guessed his was as well (Hermione was adamant that _her_ birthday was earlier than his, and yet in the fall instead of the summer, however that worked). The prince, at eighteen, had not yet found a wife, and was thus throwing a ball and inviting the whole Kingdom of Diagon to attend.

“Hermione,” Harry said carefully, setting down the horseshoe he’d been working on and turning to look at her more closely. “What do you want with a stupid ball?”

Hermione flapped her hand dismissively at him. “Oh, I don’t care about the _ball_ , Harry. It’s just… well,” and then she stopped.

“Hermione,” Harry pressed, frowning at her. “What is it?”

“Well,” she began again, biting down on her bottom lip the way she always did when she was thinking. “It’s… kind of silly. But I was walking home from the market, and I found a rabbit with it’s foot caught in a trap. And the poor thing was so scared… I set him free. And then one of the hunters from the palace came, one of the scouts. He was just a boy, really, and actually he was rather rude, thinking that it’s really his right to trap an innocent little creature-“

“Hermione,” Harry pressed with a sigh. “The ball…?”

“Oh!” She said, flushing even more. “And anyways. He said he worked at the palace, you see? And I couldn’t help it. I asked if it was true, that they really had a room with hundreds of books. And he told me no, the room has _thousands. Thousands_ of books, Harry, can you believe it?!”

Harry couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped at the look of wonder on her face. Hermione and her books. Of course.

“And then… and he told me that if I come to the ball he’ll show me the room, the library. Oh Harry, isn’t that just incredible?”

Harry smiled softly, consolingly, at her. She’d lived at the estate for seven years now, she knew it as well as he did. But she still had this flicker of hope, that if something really truly were supposed to happen, it would. Harry had lost that feeling years before she ever cried into his arms. “Hermione, of course it’s wonderful. But… you know there’s no way we can go. We have too much work to do here.”

“Just for one night, Harry. Don’t you think they’d let us have the night off?”

* * *

They, meaning the elder Madam Patil and her errant husband, did not see it from the same perspective. “You want to do _what_?” Madam Patil had said, voice haughty and mocking. Hermione’s chin was high and her shoulders strong, even as Parvati and Padma snickered in the background.

“Do you truly think you _deserve_ the night off, girl? With all of the work that never gets done around here! There are dozens of clothes that need to be mended. And don’t even get me _started_ on the fireplaces! Have you seen the state they’re in?!”

“Please,” Hermione tried again, though Harry could hear the crack in her voice. “I can do the mending tomorrow _—_ I’ll stay up all night if I have to. It’s just one night _—_ "

“Look,” Madam Patil said, rolling her eyes as she did so. “If you can clean every single fireplace in the estate, you may do whatever you please with your evening.” Hermione’s face lit up and she turned to Harry, grin spreading across her face, and then—“But Hermione, you had better not distract anyone else from their work tonight. Yes, _Harry_ , I mean you. Frankly, you’ve been slacking as well, almost all of the bowls are cracked and need to be fixed. If you can finish that, you may go as well.”

And then, Madam Patil left the room and Hermione spun, grasping Harry’s shoulders. “Harry,” she whispered, voice bouncing with excitement. “We’re going to the ball!”

* * *

Unfortunately, of course, nothing is ever as easy at it seems.

That isn’t meant to be one of those placating sayings about _life_ being difficult, or of tasks sometimes simply getting out of hand due to the nature of your work. In this situation, the problem was never work (which both Harry and Hermione were used to, and good at) or time (which was limited, but enough) but instead took the form of two girls.

Two girls who, Hermione declared as she burst into the shop with tears streaming down her dirt streaked cheeks, were absolutely positively _evil_.

“Those...those _awful_ girls!” she cried, rubbing the back of her hand across her face and streaking it even more with soot and grime. “I was nearly finished and _they_ came in and started laughing, telling me they’d been cold and lit three more fires and _oops_ they spilled my bucket of ashes across the hall and mother wasn’t pleased with me-“ Hermione’s voice broke again and she let out a soft sob, shaking her head. “They skipped right through the pile and laughed. They called me _Cinders_.”

Harry wished he had something to say, something to make her feel better. But the truth was that the girls had been to see him too, picked up three of his freshly repaired bowls and “dropped” them onto the floor.

Instead, he felt a surge of _something_ that felt like fire and he stood, grabbing Hermione’s hand and pulling her with him out of the studio. “Come on,” he said simply, as they headed for the front lawn.

“Where are we going?” Hermione pressed, trying again to dry her face. “Harry, what are you doing?!”

“We’re going to get on that carriage and tell Madam Patil that we finished. It’s too late for her to turn around and check and we can apologize tomorrow. _We_ are going to the ball.”

But by the time they reached the front lawn, it was too late. The carriage, the only one left at the estate, was already passing through the front gate, and then it was gone. And Harry and Hermione were left standing hand in hand, staring at the empty driveway.

* * *

“I _hate_ this place!” Hermione shouted, dropping ungracefully to the ground. Harry sunk beside her and nodded, sighing.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, raking a hand through his perpetually disastrous hair, “I wish my parents were here. I wish they could just… fix everything. I wish… I just want you to be happy, Hermione, and if the ball would have made you happy, I wish we could have gone to the ball.”

Just as Harry finished his sentence, there were two distinct _cracks_ in the air. Almost like thunder, on a localized and individual scale. Harry might not have reacted if it wasn’t for Hermione’s gasp, but as it was he looked up at the sound.

“Fuck!” He exclaimed, and jumped to his feet, pulling Hermione with him and then stepping protectively in front of her. Then he lifted his hands to rub at his eyes, just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Because there, standing in front of them, were two people. Two men, to be more specific. One tall and lanky, with sandy coloured hair and soft brown eyes. The other was shorter, with longer black hair and a rather mischievous grin. They were both dressed oddly, in clothes Harry had never seen before. And they were looking at him and Hermione like, well, like they were waiting for something.

“Who on earth are you? And where did you come from?”

The shorter man, the dark haired one, gasped, almost as if he were offended. “Did you hear that?!” he asked, turning his head towards his companion. “He doesn’t know who we are! Can you believe that?!”

The sandy haired man sighed and shook his head. “Actually, yes.” Then he refocused on Harry and Hermione, and smiled softly at them both. “Hullo, Hermione. Harry. It’s good to see you both.”

“Doesn’t know who we-“ the dark one was mumbling, but stopped after a withering glare from the other one. “ _We_ ,” he emphasized slowly, gesturing to himself and the other man. “ _We_ are your hairy dogmothers.”

And then, just as Harry’s jaw went slack, the man turned a bit and gestured to a _very_ small pair of wings that jutted out of his back and flittered, briefly, in Harry’s direction.

“ _Fairy_ _godfathers_ ,” the tall one corrected, shaking his head. “You’re not taking this seriously-“

“Aha! But that’s where you’re _wrong_ , my wing-ed friend! Because I’m _always_ Sirius.”

The tall one groaned and raised a hand to press into his forehead. “Every single goddamn… sorry, I’m sorry,” he finally said, moving his hand and forcing the smile back onto his face. “Remus Lupin, at your service.”

“And I’m Sirius. Sirius Black. The pleasure, I’m sure, is all yours,” said the shorter one, bowing almost regally and extending his hand as if he expected his knuckles to be kissed.

“Right,” said Harry slowly, one arm still out protectively in front of Hermione. He glanced at her sideways, out of the corner of one eye, and began to step back slowly. He should have brought _something_ with him that he could have used as a weapon.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione finally said, eyes darting between the two men. “But, did you say _fairy godfathers_?”

“Well, of course.” Sirius raised an eyebrow at her, as if he didn’t understand why they were still on this part of the conversation. “Who else would we be?”

Remus sighed but smiled again at Hermione. “Yes. That’s exactly who we are. You see, you made a wish, about wanting to go to the ball.”

“And then poof,” Sirius snapped his fingers and a small puff of red smoke wafted up through the air. “Here we are. So, we better-“

“Wait,” Harry said again, reality starting to sink in. “I’m sorry. You want me to believe that...that _fairies_ are real. And despite… despite me growing up, _us_ growing up in this absolute hellhole… the only wish you’re showing up to grant is to take us to _a stupid ball_?”

Remus winced at this, but Sirius wasn’t phased. He shrugged one shoulder rather noncommittally. “Look, mate. Fate is a fickle mistress, and fairy magic even more so. All know is that _you_ need to be at that ball, and _we_ can make that happen. Capiche?”

Harry frowned but beside him, Hermione seemed to almost consider it. “It doesn’t matter anyways,” she said with a sigh. “We have too much work to do. We could never go now.”

Remus’s smile grew and now he snapped his fingers, and in front of him there were suddenly two animals—a stag and a doe. Only, they weren’t _real_ animals. Sure, they were around the right size. But they seemed to be made up of a silver mist-like smoke. Harry had never seen anything like it. Remus leaned towards the animals and whispered something to them, and they both took off—one towards the house, and the other to Harry’s studio.

“There,” Remus said, clearly pleased with himself. “Consider your work handled.”

“I must have hit my head on something,” Harry mumbled to himself, reaching down to pinch his arm and then wincing when it hurt. “Or it’s a very, very good dream. Maybe I inhaled some poison. That must be it. Low level poisoning…”

Hermione was watching the two men—the two _fairies_ —rather intently. She didn't seem to be as convinced as Harry that it wasn’t happening, just intently curious as to what would come next.

“Next,” Sirius said, eyes flicking over Harry and Hermione from head to toe. “Outfits. You absolutely _cannot_ go to a ball like that. I forbid it. I’m not sure _what_ magazines you’re reading,” he directed at Hermione, who frowned in confusion, “but soot is simply not _in_ this century. Nor, I suppose, any other.”

Then he snapped his fingers, and Hermione gasped just as Harry felt the sensation of cold water slithering across his skin. When he was finished flinching, he looked down and gasped at himself. His usual burnt and stained garments had been replaced with a beautiful suit in black with silver buttons, and a green square of fabric tucked in his pocket—“it brings out your eyes,” Sirius said, with a hint of mischief in his eyes.

And then Harry looked up at Hermione and he gasped again. Her hair had been softened, it still curled but now fell down beside her face and tumbled over her shoulders instead of standing out in most directions. Her soot stained dress had been replaced with a beautiful periwinkle gown that flowed elegantly down to the floor. She looked like herself, but she also looked like a princess, and happier than Harry had ever seen before. Whatever dream this was, it was a good one.

“What about-“ Remus began, but Sirius shushed him.

“ _You_ do not get to contribute to the fashion section, Mr. Mustard-Coloured-Corduroys!”

“They’re comfortable,” Remus protested. “Besides, have you looked in a mirror recently?”

Sirius gasped and lifted a hand to his chest. “Why I _never_ ,” he protested, mock-hurt. “And I’ll have you know that leather pants are both fashionable _and_ comfortable, thank you very much, _Grandpa_.”

Remus rolled his eyes and turned to Harry and Hermione, thinking for a second before snapping his fingers. A delicate mask appeared on Hermione’s face, and Harry could tell that instead of his glasses he wore one too.

“What good ball doesn’t have a masquerade?” Remus said with a grin to the two of them.

“And,” Sirius piped up again, never one to be outdone as he crouched down to the ground and brushed the hem of Hermione’s dress away. “A lady is never complete without the right…” he snapped his fingers again and Hermione’s worn slippers shimmered and sparked in the moonlight, and then with a soft crack they solidified around her feet. Hermione gasped and Harry leaned in to look closer, his own mouth opening as he realized what the shoes were made of.

“Sirius,” Remus sighed, and Harry could practically hear the eyeroll in his voice. “What have I said about making glass heels? You know they just don’t have the structural-”

“That’s why,” Sirius interrupted with a hearty laugh as he stood up again. “I made them _flat_.” He lifted a finger and tapped at his temple with a knowing smirk stretching across his face. “Beauty _and_ brains, love.”

Harry was still searching his brain for something to say to all of this nonsense when Hermione let out a rather sad “oh”, drawing Remus’s attention away from Sirius and back towards her.

“I’ve just realized,” she said, disheartened. “They’ve taken the carriage. We couldn’t go now even if we wanted.”

“Nonsense,” Sirius declared. “Carriage-schmarriage.” He paced around the garden for a moment, looking around them and muttering “carriage, carriage…” to himself as he did so.

Then, Remus let out a triumphant “ah-ha!” When he flicked his fingers, one of Harry’s bowls appeared in his hand. It was beautiful—part of one of Harry’s experiments, blue and green glass shining in the light. With another snap, the bowl had grown to a size large enough to fit them both. There were wheels on the bottom and a bench in the middle, and even Harry couldn’t help but grin when he saw it.

“Wow,” he whispered, and Hermione nodded beside him. Remus helped them up into the carriage just as Sirius returned to the group.

“Oh,” Sirius said, slightly disheartened. “I was thinking more like a pumpkin, but I suppose this will do. Ah! And one more thing!” he exclaimed, pointing to the chicken coop nearby. “You will need… a majestic horse!”

He snapped and flicked his fingers a few more times, and then paused and let his head tilt slowly to the side, letting out a low “huh” as he did so. In front of them was a creature that _seemed_ like a horse, at least in size and general shape. Instead of a horse’s head though, the creature still looked very much like a chicken. In fact, it basically _was_ just a very large chicken head attached to the horse's body, which Sirius was tying into the reins of the cart.

“Hey!” he snapped, jumping back from the creature. “Be careful with her, you two. She bites.” Sirius paused for a second and then grinned somewhat madly at them both. “I’ve decided to call her Buckbeak.”

“Sirius,” Remus groaned, in a tone that sounded like it was an argument they’d had many times. “How many times have I told you not to name the transfigured animals?”

Sirius flapped his hand dismissively at Remus and turned back to Harry and Hermione, who both looked more than a little stunned about what was happening around them. “Now, look. You both need to be careful, alright? And _make sure_ you’re back here before midnight. Well, maybe one. Aaaaaaactually, you could proooobably do two. But _no later_ than two, am I clear?”

Hermione frowned at this. It was only just after seven, she knew, so they still had hours. But still. “Why two?” she asked, forever curious.

“Can’t guarantee that the magic will hold past that.” Sirius said with a shrug. “Frankly, I’m a little rusty at all of this. But you can’t blame me, I’ve spent the last sixteen years in _jail_ , so-“

“Wait,” Harry tried to interrupt, his head still reeling. “Sorry what? In _jail_?”

Sirius winked as he stepped back from the cart. “Oh, don’t worry about it. Just a spot of murder, that. Not even _my_ murder, technically. Now. Like I said, nothing worth considering—you two have a ball to get to!” and he stepped back once more then reached out to smack Buckbeak on the behind. The creature reared up, then dropped down and began to pull them away.

“Enjoy the ball!” Sirius called to them.

“Remember, this is your destiny!” Remus added, as Sirius threw his arm around his shoulders and let out a sigh.

“Oh, kids,” Harry thought he heard Sirius sniffle. “They just grow up so fast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this has gotten......wildly out of control. nymphadoraholtzmann and I were watching Into the Woods and went down a "ha ha what if cinderella but with Harry" and then it... kind of just.... morphed out of control? Everything was fine and then there was a murder plot and now there's a prophecy and... I don't know.
> 
> ALSO. If you're enjoying this story, I need to highly highly recommend olivieblake's "Nobility". It's one of my absolute favourite fanfictions and I have to give her credit for such a beautifully fleshed out medieval AU. I might also add that Nobility has a Kingdom of Diagon (and I mean how do you give credit in a fanfiction because Diagon was I guess JKs first but, anyways). If Olivie isn't cool with this homage I'm going to edit some things around and so if you see any changes in this fic it's because I want to respect an author who did it first!
> 
> Right now I'm writing part 5, and since I had originally planned on this being a one shot I frankly have no idea how long it's going to end up. If my outline manages to stay mostly under control I think we're looking at around 6 parts and probably ~25,000 words? But... I can't commit to any of that.
> 
> Big shout outs to nymphadoraholtzmann and theskiddlyboop for being enablers but also for helping me edit / proofread / just being general loves!
> 
> (Also, for the few of you reading, I have not abandoned space pirates! I promise more is coming, it's just slow going over there and this was fresh and hit me fast so I wrote it to get it out of my brain and then will resume that party too. Promise.)
> 
> Comments / questions / thoughts always welcome!!! Please fuel me!


	2. In a Kingdom Far, Far Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _stars, hide you fires,_   
>  _these here are my desires,_   
>  _and I won't give them up to you this time around_
> 
> _and so, I'll be found_  
>  _with my stake stuck in this ground_  
>  _marking the territory of this newly impassioned soul_  
>  \- mumford and sons; _roll away your stone_

“Harry,” Hermione breathed out as the cart clattered down the road towards the palace. “Harry, can you pinch me?”

“I already tried that,” he said, though reached over to pinch her anyways. At her mumbled ow, he shrugged. “I’m really not sure what’s happening.”

“ _Fairy godfathers_ ,” Hermione said again, shaking her head in wonderment. “Can you really truly believe it?”

Harry pondered the question for a long moment. On the surface, obviously the answer was no. There was no such thing as fairies, or godfathers at least for him. No such thing as magic, or whatever it was that had happened to them.

But, then again…

“I’m not sure, Hermione. But I think… maybe we should just… see where this takes us?”

Hermione nodded once, agreeing with him. “You’re right. Even if this isn’t… well… Who knows _what_ it is, but they did say that fate wanted us at the ball. That it was our destiny.”

“Right,” Harry said with a nod of his own that felt entirely out of place. “Who are we to argue with destiny?”

Hermione laughed at this, bright and loud, and then leaned gently into Harry’s side. Harry’s heart filled again with the swell of _family_ that he always got when she laughed, and he wrapped an arm gently around her, and let himself laugh as well. What else was there really to do?

* * *

The palace was stunning, decorated and lit up for the ball. Even from miles down the road Harry could see it glittering in the distance, a large structure of glass and steel and gold. As they approached Harry couldn’t help but look at every carriage lined up outside, from the simple wood ones furthest away from the main doors to the intricate and gorgeous ones inside the palace gates.

“Wow,” he whispered to Hermione, and she nodded, silent as she took in the scene that unfolded before them.

Before Harry could even let the reality of the situation sink in, they had reached the steps that led up into the ballroom. Harry jolted at the realization and quickly clambered out of the carriage, reaching out to help Hermione down and then passing Buckbeak’s reins to the man standing there. The man bowed deeply to Harry and then turned to the carriage, faltering for a moment at the sight of their not-quite-horse, but he took it in stride as he led the creature away from them. Harry almost thought he heard the man whisper something about “What on _earth_ are they doing over on the continent,” but he was quickly pulled towards the palace by Hermione, who was clutching his arm tightly.

Harry had never seen so many people in one place all at once before and it was vaguely overwhelming, to say the least. The ball had, it seemed, already kicked into full swing. From the short line leading into the ballroom Harry could see hundreds of masked people dancing to bright upbeat music, laughter, and the smell of something delicious wafted out of the room. Then they were next, and the man at the door raised an eyebrow at them, slowly and carefully.

“Invitation…?” he drawled, voice low and unaffected.

Harry froze, and glanced wildly over to Hermione. Her eyes were large as well, and she shook her head just slightly.

“Sir,” she said, very carefully, “I thought the whole Kingdom of Diagon was invited?”

The man raised one dark eyebrow and peered down at her. “Yes, _madame_. Every household was sent an invitation,” he clarified, and just as Harry was about to turn and run he felt something crinkle in the chest pocket of his suit. Slowly he reached into the pocket and pulled out a crisp, if slightly creased, piece of thick parchment paper.

“Of course, Sir,” Harry cut in smoothly, feeling inordinately pleased with himself. “You mean this invitation,” and handed it over.

The man’s eyes narrowed again but he took the paper anyways, reading it slowly before turning back towards the room.

“Um,” Hermione began, and then the man cleared his throat. His voice, when he spoke now, was loud and clear, and he didn’t appear to be shouting but it clearly carried across the room.

“Introducing,” he stated, glancing once more down to the paper, clearly skeptical about it all. “Miss. H. Gryffindor, accompanied by Sir H. Gryffindor.” Then, he stepped to the side and gestured down the stairs, and Hermione squeezed Harry’s arm again as they made their way carefully down the grand staircase and into the ballroom.

* * *

“Wow,” Hermione whispered, as the slipped through the crowd. “Can you believe this place? It’s _stunning_!”

Harry nodded, feeling dazed by the crowds. “It sure is something, Hermione.”

Finally, the pair found themselves standing off to the side of the dance floor, on a slightly raised platform and with an excellent view of the proceedings around them. Harry was still taking in the room—hundreds, maybe even a thousand people, all of them masked and dancing and laughing. It was only when Hermione dug her nails into his arm that he snapped out of the daze the party had thrown him into, and he turned his head sharply to look at her. Her eyes were fixed on something across the room, and she had pressed her other free hand to her chest in a momentary, and very uncharacteristic, display of weakness.

“Harry,” she breathed, and he followed her gaze across the room. “That’s him, the one who said he’d show me the books.”

Harry searched across the room, trying to see who she meant. And there, probably only twenty feet or so away from them, near one of the other buffet tables, was the group of men she was watching. Maybe four in total, the first with a large smile and almost glowing dark skin, the next more muscular than anyone Harry had ever seen, then a tall lanky blonde, and then-

Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

Even from where they stood, and from the masks that obscured their features, Harry could tell that this man was different. Relatively average build and height, with deep chestnut brown hair and bright sparkling golden eyes; he stood like he ruled the room yet wasn’t entirely comfortable with the weight of it. He was in a stunning suit that looked expensive to Harry, even with the little expertise Harry had on the subject. Even his features were sharp and aristocratic, and Harry’s entire world felt like it tilted on its axis.

“Him?” he breathed, and Hermione—her cheeks flushing and her hand tight on his arm, nodded slowly.

“Yes, I know it’s him. Even with the mask, I’d… I’d recognize that hair anywhere.”

Harry frowned. “The hair?” That didn’t make sense. Sure, his hair was _gorgeous_ but… it wasn’t that distinctive-

Hermione was already moving, and Harry couldn’t help but follow, pulled through the crowd that seemed to part for them as they approached the group. Before they reached them, the blonde looked up, and noticed them coming. As his eyes traced over Hermione, his back seemed to straighten, and Harry watched as he broke away from the group and met Hermione as they approached, a few feet away from the others.

Hermione let go of Harry’s arm and let out a shaky breath as she stepped closer to the man. “Stars,” she all but whispered. “Hide your fires-”

The man—the _blond_ , Harry thought with oddly placed relief—broke into a grin, and reached for her, catching her hand in his. “Let not light see my black and deep desires.”

Hermione let out a shaky laugh of her own as he kissed the back of her hand, and she dipped into a slight curtsey.

“You came,” he said, voice almost awestruck. “I wasn’t certain I would see you.”

“Well,” Hermione demurred softly, stepping even closer to him so that their bodies were nearly touching, no longer aware of their surroundings. “You promised me books.”

Just then, Harry felt the warmth of another body beside him, and as he glanced over his breath caught in his throat. The man, the dark haired one, was even more beautiful up close. Captivating, breathtaking—he barely had time to even consider the fact that he probably shouldn’t have those thoughts about another man, frankly he was too enamored to dwell on it.

“Do you have any idea what all this is about?” the man asked, amusement tinting his voice and dancing across his lips as he spoke.

Harry managed, with some effort, to pull himself somewhat back together. “Uh,” he started, and then shrugged. “Macbeth, I think?”

This was, clearly, the right answer. The man laughed again, loud and bright, and the sound poured through Harry like hot whiskey—he felt like he would never be cold again.

“ _Obviously_ it’s Macbeth,” he said, grinning at Harry to indicate that he was teasing him. Harry felt the blush creep up his chest and neck and across his face at the attention. “I meant, the two of them.”

The reminder that they were here for a reason was enough to pull Harry’s attention, momentarily, away from the man. When he glanced back up he realized Hermione was gone, and as he looked frantically around the room he spotted her, her arm threaded through the blond’s, as they slipped out of a side door of the ballroom.

“I…” Harry frowned, and looked back to his new companion, and then remembered he needed to say _something_. “I believe they’re off to find the books.”

The man rolled his eyes and then reached out a hand tentatively, to brush a speck of dust off Harry’s lapel. “Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised.” Before Harry had a chance to respond, the man had caught one of his hands and lifted it up, brushing a soft kiss to the back of Harry’s knuckles.

Harry’s entire body caught fire at the sensation, and he had to bite down on his lip to stop from moaning at the way the man looked up at him from where he was bent slightly forward. What was _happening_ to him?”

“I’m Theo. It’s a... _pleasure_ to meet you.” The way that Theo drew out the word pleasure sent another shiver down Harry’s spine, and it took Theo straightening up and clearing his throat to remind Harry that he needed to respond.

“H-Harry,” he stuttered out, and flushed even deeper at the way the man smiled at his obvious level of frustration.

“Harry,” Theo said, as if trying the name out, letting it roll over his tongue. “Well, Harry, what do you say to a dance?”

* * *

Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anything like the way he did right now. Theo pushed open the door to a small balcony and they tumbled through it, both laughing so much they were barely breathing, hands tangled and bodies close together.

“And then _I_ said,” Theo continued, through spurts of laughter as he closed the door and leaned against the railing. “‘Well ma’am, perhaps if you kept better control of your buttocks in the first place, we wouldn’t be _having_ this problem!’”

Harry’s laughter doubled down and he lifted his free hand to wipe away some of the tears that had begun to leak out against his will. “You didn’t,” he managed to say, shaking his head in disbelief.

Theo grinned, wicked and mischievous, as he tangled their fingers together and pulled Harry closer, their chests only a foot apart and their breath mingling in the space between them. “I most certainly did. Someone had to tell the woman.”

But the hilarity of the situation had seemed to catch, suddenly, as their eyes met. Harry took a deep breath to try and compose himself; he was starting to feel dizzy. They had danced for what felt like hours and Theo’s company was intoxicating. He felt like he was on top of the world, like he could stay there forever. Here, with the cool night breeze drifting across his skin, with Theo’s hand on his chest-

“Theo,” he managed to say, starting to step back a little bit. “What are we—what are _you —_”

Theo frowned, and tightened his grip on Harry’s fingers, stepping slightly closer himself so that the distance between them didn’t change. “Are you having a good night, Harry?”

Harry swallowed down his hesitation and nodded. “The best night of my life,” he admitted, softly.

“And,” Theo continued, shifting just a little bit closer to Harry. “How do you feel, right now, right here?”

“I-” Harry paused, swallowed again, closed his eyes. “Like… like this is a dream. A perfect, incredible, life changing dream.”

Theo nodded, and Harry felt a warm puff of breath against his face, and he fought back another shiver. “So, what’s the problem, Harry?”

A bar of music drifted through the glass behind them and Harry opened his eyes. That was a mistake. Theo was impossibly close to him now. Not touching him, other than his hands, but only inches away. His eyes were stunning—molten gold and so goddamn _sincere —_and every nerve ending in Harry’s body felt like it was on fire. “We… we shouldn’t. We’re both, well, I don’t…”

Theo shook his head again, the hand on his chest lifting up to rest, instead, on Harry’s cheek. “Harry, don’t overthink it,” he suggested. “Close your eyes.” Without meaning to, Harry complied.

And then—and _then_ , Theo’s warm lips were pressing against his own, and where the world had once turned it now ground to a heart-stopping halt. Harry would have gasped, except his mouth was preoccupied, and instead the only thing he was able to do was to lift his own free hand and let his fingers curl around Theo’s neck. His action was rewarded, with Theo’s fingers twisting into his lapel and pulling their bodies even closer together. Their kiss deepened, Harry pressing further into Theo’s hard body, and just as he was about to lose himself completely in it, a loud voice carried through the ballroom and out onto the balcony.

“Five minutes until the mask reveal, guests!”

Harry managed to pull his face back from Theo’s and took in a deep shuddering breath of air. “Theo,” he murmured, trying to shake the fog that was settling through his skull. “Theo, what time is it?”

“Masks off at two,” Theo murmured distractedly, eyes still closed, as he tried to pull Harry back in for another kiss.

“Theo,” Harry said again, and this time he was able to untangle himself, stepping back just enough that Theo was forced to open his eyes to protest. “You’re telling me it’s five to two?”

Theo nearly rolled his eyes, but graced Harry with the action of glancing up at the castle tower that rose above them. “Four to, now.”

A rather strangled noise bubbled out of Harry’s chest and he wanted to scream and curse and yell at the stars. Fate indeed! “Theo,” he whispered, tone frantic now. “Theo, I’m so sorry. Tonight was… tonight was _everything_. You need to know that, okay?”

“What?” Theo murmured, pulling his eyebrows down into a frown. “Harry, what are you talking about? They’re just masks-”

“No, no, just. Look. Just. Know I’m not… I’ll never…” Harry shook his head, he knew he was messing this all up. “I’ll never forget this, I promise.” He leaned forward, and pressed one more kiss to Theo’s lips, wishing he could stay forever. “Thank you,” he added, and then he turned and—with one last glance back—took off at a run through the ballroom.

* * *

“Hermione!” Harry shouted, as he pushed through the bodies, looking frantically for her hair or her dress or anything that indicated where she was. “Hermione we have to go!”

As he flew out into the hallway, he caught sight of her, tumbling out of another door and looking around frantically as well. “Harry!” she shouted, and he took off in her direction.

“Hermione, it’s almost two-”

“I know, I know, there was a clock, there was-”

“Come on, there’s no time-”

“But Harry, I-” Harry had caught up to her and grabbed her hand by then, and was trying to pull her towards the door. She wasn’t moving fast enough. “I, he-”

Harry shook his head and pulled harder on her arm. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I’m so sorry, but we _have to go_!”

Hermione took a deep breath and then steeled her shoulders, turning fully towards the exit as she ran with Harry. The doormen hurried to pull the doors open for them and then stepped out of the way as the pair made their way down towards the front steps of the palace.

And then, the catch—“Hermione!” came a voice, clear and loud and piercing through the night air. “Hermione, wait!”

Hermione shook her head furiously and Harry didn’t slow his pace, though he could see that there were tears building in her eyes.

“Harry!” he heard then, and he knew the voice—the same one that had whispered in his ear all night, that had told him not to overthink it. Theo had followed him.

“Don’t stop!” he yelled to Hermione, and they hit the stairs at full tilt, pounding down them, his heart thudding in his ears. On one side of him there was a loud squawk and Harry managed to catch sight of a large peacock out of the side of his eye—though he didn’t exactly have time to process what _that_ was about.

And then with a shout when Harry wasn’t paying full enough attention, Hermione tripped forwards and Harry managed to catch her, pulling her up and onwards as fast as he could. They were nearly at the bottom of the steps, and he could see their carriage with Buckbeak in front waiting for them, knew they were almost out of time.

“Harry, my shoe!” Hermione cried, as they kept going. “My shoe fell off!”

“Hermione!” Harry said again, as they reached the carriage and he pulled her up and in with him. “There’s no time!”

As they climbed into the carriage another voice joined the fray, loud and clear and drawling, the distainful voice of the man who introduced them.

“Your majesty, where do you think you are going?!”

They both turned to look—on the steps, Theo was standing, doubled over with his hands on his knees and breathing hard, eyes focused on Harry. And next to him was the blonde man, holding the shoe Hermione had dropped in one hand, and his mask in the other. And at the sight of his face, and the words from the third man, and all of a sudden—

“Holy shit,” Harry whispered. “That’s the fucking Prince!”

“Hermione!” The man—the _prince_ —shouted again. “Wait-“

But the clock had started to chime, and at the sound Buckbeak took off, and then there was silence.

Beside him, Hermione lifted a hand to cover her mouth in shock and possibly mild disgust.

“I kissed the prince,” she whispered, and Harry couldn’t stop the bubble of vaguely hysterical laughter that burst from his chest.

* * *

The carriage arrived at the house just in time. By the time they reached the front yard, Harry was back in his old clothes and the bench he was sitting on shrinking rapidly. They tumbled rather spectacularly to the ground as it gave one final shudder and turned back into a bowl, both of them laughing and still breathing hard from the run and then the carriage ride.

As they sat up, Harry realized three things.

Firstly: they were home, and themselves, and if someone had told him that the last seven hours had been a dream, he might have believed them.

Second: Hermione’s eyes were as wide as saucers, and she was clutching her remaining shoe tightly to her chest.

And, thirdly: Buckbeak was still standing in front of them, preening slightly at one of his feathers and ruffling the large and oddly proportioned wings that had sprouted out of his back as most of the magic wore off.

“Um, Hermione?” Harry started, rubbing at his eyes and then dragging himself to his feet, reaching down to pull her up as well. “Didn’t Sirius say the magic wouldn’t last?”

Hermione nodded, looking down at the shoe. “Some of it didn’t,” she agreed.

“So… what are we supposed to do with this guy?”

Before Harry could get any closer, though, Buckbeak lifted his head as if he’d heard his name on the wind. And then with a single noise that wasn’t quite a cluck or a neigh, the creature launched himself up and into the night. And, in the silence of their yard, Harry was _sure_ he thought he heard Sirius giggle.

* * *

“I can’t sleep.” Hermione’s voice drifted across the small room they shared, and for the thousandth time that night, Harry couldn’t suppress the laugh that arose in response.

“Me neither,” he admitted, and turned under his covers so that he was facing her. Through the darkened room he could just see the shape of her under the covers, and he was comforted by it. He was also, he realized, relieved. Sure, some of the other servants kids had made jokes about him and Hermione being in love or whatever, and he knew what was supposed to happen to men who looked at women they loved. And he had always felt just a little bit… guilty, perhaps, about the fact that he didn't see Hermione that way. It would make sense, after all, for it to be _them_.

Things made much more sense now, even if, on the other hand, they really didn’t.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asked, trying to pull himself out of his own rapidly spiraling thoughts.

Hermione sighed wistfully, and Harry heard her rustle around in her own sheets, turning to face him as well. Their eyes met across the room, and he waited for her to speak. “I hate the prince,” she said, rather miserably.

“Trust me, Hermione, I know,” Harry murmured.

“Well! Really! He’s such an insensitive… _prat_. Locked up there in his perfect castle in his ‘perfect’ kingdom, ignoring everyone else who are suffering because of _his_ families laws. The monarchy is a tool of _oppression_ , Harry, and don’t even get me _started_ on-”

“On class politics. I _know_ ,” Harry said with another small laugh. “But, you clearly didn’t hate him, before you knew who he was.”

Hermione groaned in response and Harry watched the dark blurry shape of her pull her pillow over her head in misery.

“Tell me about your night,” Harry pressed, knowing neither of them would sleep now, at least not until she got this out of her system. “Forget the whole… _prince_ thing… for a minute. Just, tell me what happened when you left the ballroom.”

Slowly, Hermione removed the pillow from her face and Harry waited, patiently, for her to compartmentalize his identity and start back at the beginning. She let out a wistful sigh, and propped her head up on one hand.

“Oh, Harry, it was _amazing_. The library was… I’ve never seen anything like it, Harry. Thousands of books, some of them in languages I didn’t even know _existed_ … He said I could borrow anything I wanted,” she whispered, her voice almost reverent.

“And, the man?” Harry pressed, grinning at her predictability. Books over everything. It was why they went to the ball in the first place, after all. Or at least part of the reason.

“He…” Hermione paused, clearly mulling over her feelings, turning them around in her head. “He was wonderful,” she admitted, and Harry could tell she was smiling. “We talked about books, and we argued about politics—well, debated I should say—and he told me about visiting other places outside of Diagon...” Hermione trailed off. “Really, how stupid am I? I should have _guessed_ he was the Prince. He kept saying _‘my_ books’!”

Harry laughed again, unable to stop himself. “But you liked him?”

“Yes,” Hermione whispered, without hesitation. Harry noticed her breath catch for just a moment, as if she surprised herself with the surety of her answer. Still, Hermione was lost somewhere in the moment, eyes glazed over as she pictured them standing together, her back against a bookshelf, the smell of old parchment and then _him_ , in front of her, his soft hair draped in his face and his tall body against hers. “And then he _kissed_ me, and…and the world stopped.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmured, hearing the sleep trace through her voice, feeling it slowly settle over his body, still unable to shake the feeling of Theo’s strong hands and solid chest and the cool air that twisted around them. “I know.”

* * *

The royal proclamation came two days later.

Harry had been the one fetching the mail from town, even though it was typically Hermione’s errand. She had more to do than he did, and he didn’t mind the walk. But when he picked up the parchment scroll, felt the wax seal under his thumb, he knew something was happening.

Madam Patil opened it with the entire household crowded around her, Harry and Hermione back as far away as they could be, Hermione clutching Harry’s arm nervously. Even though they didn’t know what it was about, from the way her fingernails dug into his skin, Harry had a feeling it was going to be connected to their night at the ball.

“ _Attention, all citizens of the Kingdom of Diagon,_ ” Madam Patil read, her voice loud and clear over the whispered murmurs between the servants and her daughters in the room. “ _Two nights past, at a ball held to commemorate the birth of our Prince Draco —_praise him— _the prince spent time with a beautiful woman. Now, the prince would like to invite the beautiful woman who met him in the library to dine with him at the royal household tonight. If she is still in the kingdom, the prince requires that she present herself at once to him. So it shall be._ ”

Beside him, Hermione was choking on the air of the room, fingernails dug so painfully into Harry’s arm that he was sure she would draw blood. Madam Patil was considering the letter, reading it over, and the twins were whispering furiously to each other. In the commotion, Harry decided that their best plan was one of escape, and turned to pull Hermione from the room and out into the courtyard.

“Harry,” she choked, shaking her head furiously back and forth. “Harry I can’t, I-”

“He doesn’t know who you are,” Harry cut in, pulling her tightly into a hug to attempt to calm her down, rubbing slow circles on her back. “If he’d have known your name, he could have found you. There’s only one Hermione in the whole village, and everyone knows you live here.”

“But, I told him my name,” Hermione insisted, looking up to Harry. “I… did you hear the way that _proclamation_ ,” she spat, fury building in her chest, “was written? He _requires_ that I present myself to him? When he couldn’t even do me the decency of remembering my name? I will do no such thing!”

Beside them, there was another crack—just one this time. Harry jumped when he found himself face to face with Remus, who was smiling down at them both.

“That, unfortunately, was my fault,” Remus said, voice soft and kind. “The enchantment I placed on your masks was… rather powerful, you see. Meant to help you blend into the crowd, become forgettable, if someone in your household had seen. The fact that he remembers you at all… well… clearly you made an impression, love.”

Harry blanched at this information. “So… so you mean no one we spoke to will remember us being there?”

Remus frowned in thought at the question, looking Harry over quickly and then flashing him a mischievous grin. “They certainly wouldn’t remember your name. And anyone you saw in passing would struggle to place you as more than just another face in the crowd. But, as I said, fairy magic can be…” Remus wiggled his fingers back and forth and shrugged, slightly. “Finicky. And a kiss can tangle the best of spells.”

Something like a weight lifted from Harry’s chest, and he nodded in understanding.

“I have to go,” Remus said quickly, looking them both over and smiling, sadly. “Please, remember. There was a reason you were supposed to be at that ball,” he turned towards Hermione, and rested a hand on her shoulder consolingly. “And Hermione, hatred is only as powerful as you make it.” And then, with another crack and a small sizzle, he was gone.

“Those meddlesome little fairies,” Hermione muttered, shaking her head.

“Hermione,” Harry pressed, moving so that he could grasp both of her shoulders and look at her closely. “Think about this. Really… really think about it. He wants you to go to dinner. He wants to see you again!”

Hermione shook her head, pulling back out of his grip. “No,” she said sadly, lifting a hand to tuck an errant curl away from her face. “He wants to have dinner with a princess, a noble, something with the right… the right _blood_. He doesn’t want to have dinner with me.”

Harry frowned. “Did he say that to you, Hermione?”

The girl let out a huff of frustration and turned away from him, and Harry crossed his arms. He could wait. “Well,” she said, after a long moment. “Not… not that night. But he’s said it in the past.His father is maniacal about nobles only marrying other nobles. ‘Maintaining the royal bloodline’, ‘those who were born to rule’, you know exactly what I mean. Harry, I can’t go. He won’t… he’ll never see past the soot and the dirt. I’m not,” she paused, and let out a shuddering breath. “I’ll never be enough for him,” she admitted.

Harry closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as she cried against his chest. “You are enough,” he whispered down into her hair, his heart breaking as he realized what the situation meant. Theo would never be able to find him, even if he could remember his name. Theo, who was clearly a noble, one of the prince’s friends. Someone of high birth and high name, even if Harry didn’t know what that name was. If the Prince couldn’t be with whoever he wanted, there was just no way that Theo could either, and that didn’t even take into consideration the _bigger_ problem here. No matter what Harry wanted to pretend was possible, in the real world Princes and nobles don’t end up with servants and smiths, nevermind the question of their gender.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said again, to Hermione, as he rubbed her back consolingly. “I promise.”

Hermione nodded against him, her cries slowing, and Harry let out a shaky breath.

How could anything ever be okay again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. I need to stop saying anything that even resembles "keep an eye out for the next chapter [around x time]." Heh. My bad.
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed!! Please please feel free to comment, I love to read them!
> 
> Just in case you're curious, I'm midway through writing chapter 5. I'm thinking maybe it'll only end up being 6 chapters? But also, that could be a wild underestimation. Guess we'll find out!


	3. A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When the morning comes, when we see what we've become_   
>  _In the cold light of day we're a flame in the wind_   
>  _Not the fire that we've begun_   
>  _Every argument, every word we can't take back_   
>  _'Cause with the all that has happened_   
>  _I think that we both know the way that the story ends_   
>  _Then only for a minute, I want to change my mind_   
>  _'Cause this just don't feel right to me_
> 
>  
> 
> \- marshmello ft. bastille, _happier_

Hermione did not present herself to the castle. Obviously.

Even though Harry told her that she should, that it would be a good idea just to go and see what it was like, what _he_ was like, what he thought about her. It might be fun.

Still, it wasn’t enough to convince her--she had never been an easy person to talk into doing something she didn’t want to do. But that didn’t stop the twins from going, and from talking about it loudly all night after they got home. 

“And _then_ ,” Padma said, scoffing at even the thought of what had happened. “After sending a hundred girls home because their _eyes_ weren’t the exact shade of mud-water brown,”

“ _Then_ ,” Parvati cut in, “he goes, ‘ _oh, let me kiss that hand_!’ and nearly half of the girls must have fainted on the spot!”

“Except,” Padma shot back, and Harry--from his place on the other side of the room, where he was helping serve up dinner, had to stop himself from rolling his eyes-- “except those of us who stepped forward to have our hands kissed didn’t _get_ a kiss at all!” 

“No,” Parvati finished, her eyes darkening as she frowned. “He just… he _sighed_ , and said, ‘none of these are her!’ and then left. Just like that.” 

Beside him, Hermione scoffed. “‘ _Let me wipe it first, it smells of mortality,_ ’” she mumbled, but clearly not quietly enough.

“What was that?” Padma snapped, pointing at Hermione.

Hermione froze, ladle halfway to the bowl that Harry was holding. “What was what?” she asked, carefully.

“What did you just say?” Parvati demanded, latching on to Padma’s anger.

Hermione shifted, bit her lip. “Oh. Nothing,” she mumbled, clearly uncomfortable with the direct attention, shaking her head to try and shake it off.

It was Madam Patil’s turn to interrupt now, narrowing her own eyes. “Don’t play coy with us, girl. What did you say?” 

With a sigh, Hermione set her ladle back down in the soup. “It’s a quote. ‘ _Oh, let me kiss that hand! Let me wipe it first, it smells of mortality_ ’.” When the room stayed silent, Hermione glanced over at Harry, who shrugged as well. “It’s King Lear.” she stated matter-of-factly, clearly expecting some sort of reaction.

Parvati and Padma burst into laughter at this. “What a little _bookworm_ ,” Padma teased, though Madam Patil still had her eyes trained carefully on Hermione.

“Who cares about King Lear, whoever _that_ is? _Our_ King’s name is Lucius,” Parvati added with another vicious giggle.

“Girls,” Madam Patil said, halfheartedly, still focused closely on Hermione, who had picked the ladle back up again. “Eat your soup.”

Harry couldn’t help himself, his eyes narrowed just slightly at Hermione. She might not think she was interested, in this Prince with his bad policies and big library, but… then again… would Hermione ever truly be happy with someone _ordinary_?

* * *

Four days passed. Both Harry and Hermione fell uneasily back into their old routines. There was, afterall, much to be done in the house. But still, Harry knew things were forever different, now. Every so often he’d pause in his work and feel a tingle across his lips, a reminder that he knew now that there was something he was missing. Harry wasn’t alone. He noticed that Hermione would also pause in her work, gaze off into nothing. He wondered if she was thinking about the books, or about the man.

And then, once more, things changed.

There was a knock on the door.

Harry was in the house at the time, sitting on the floor of the kitchen, head halfway inside the wood burning oven that cooked most of the households food. It had been acting up lately and he was pretty sure there was a brick somewhere in the back that had cracked, and so as Hermione washed dishes he attempted to figure out where the problem was. The knock startled both of them, and he nearly hit his head on the arch of bricks over his head before he was able to pull himself out of the space and look over to Hermione.

“Bit late for visitors, don’t you think?” she murmured, and Harry nodded, silent, in agreement.

When the door was open, Harry froze. He could just see through the gap in the kitchen door that the person standing outside was from the palace, a royal decked out in travelling garb.

“Hermione,” he whispered, eyes growing large. The man had stepped slightly more inside and Harry recognized him now, the one who had introduced them at the ball, the one who had followed the prince and Theo out onto the steps. “Hermione, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Hermione nodded and set down the dish she was holding, drying her hands on her skirt and padding softly away from the sink. “Our room?” she suggested quietly, and Harry nodded. Their room was in the basement, attached to the kitchen. But it was an odd little space, a converted part of the root cellar, really. So their entrance was through the kitchen itself, an little door that didn’t actually look like a door, and then a steep staircase that led under the earth. From inside of the room, if you angled yourself just right, you could sit on the stairs and look through a crack in the door and see the living room perfectly, but no one would know you were there.

The man from the front was in the living room now, and Hermione clutched at Harry’s arm as they watched to see what would happen.

“Ah, Madam Patil,” the man said, bowing low to the other woman. “My name is Severus Snape, I am here on behalf of the King.”

“Snape?” Harry mouthed to Hermione, wondering why the name sounded familiar. She shrugged.

“Oh! Of course!” Madam Patil demurred, curtseying to the man. “How lovely it is to have you in our home, Master Snape. What can I get for you? Tea, perhaps, or something stronger?” 

Snape shook his head. “No, Madam, this is not a social call. You see, I am here on an… errand.” The way he said the word made it sound worthless, and Harry watched as his eyes flicked around the room. “You have daughters, Madam Patil. Were they in attendance at the Prince’s Ball?” 

“Why, of course,” the woman said, responding quickly yet clearly. She knew how to speak to nobles, but she also knew that there was something happening in this exchange. “They had an excellent time, sir,” 

Snape waved his hand dismissively. “Good. How lovely.” His voice was flat and bored, and Hermione couldn’t help but snicker slightly. Clearly, this man did not care one bit about what the Patil twins thought of the party of the decade. “Now, will you please call your daughters down?”

Madam Patil paused for a moment, considering the request. “Of course, sir,” she demurred again, and then turned for the stairs to call the girls to the living room. 

Harry and Hermione waited to see what was going to happen, both almost holding their breaths. “Ladies,” Snape greeted, his monotone voice carrying clearly through the house. “As I am _sure_ you are aware, the night of the ball the prince met a woman. The,” Snape paused, clearly unhappy with what he had to say. “The mystery princess, they are calling her. We have been unable to locate the _princess_ , and the prince is adamant that we find her.” Hermione’s fingers had tightened once more on Harry’s arm, and when Snape reached into a bag he had been carrying and pulled out a single glass slipper, she gasped so loudly Harry was sure they’d be caught.

They weren’t. 

“This _princess_ ,” Snape continued, his tone making clear what he thought of this title, “was wearing this slipper the night of the ball. I have been sent to every home in Diagon that houses a maiden, looking for its rightful owner.”

Parvati and Padma were beside themselves, each doing their best to subtly shove the other out of the way. Hermione was starting to hyperventilate, and Harry wasn’t sure what to do. Out in the parlour, Parvati was sitting down on a stool and kicking her own shoe off, and she extended her foot to Snape for him to put the slipper on.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered, frantically. “We have to get out of here. He… he can’t find me!”

Harry nodded, glancing quickly around the room. They had one window that was large enough to shimmy though, and he rushed over, pushing it open and helping Hermione out and up before dragging himself through as well. They maneuvered to the side of the house where they were least likely to be spotted and dropped down to the ground together.

“Hermione,” Harry asked, tentatively. She was a stubborn person, not someone who could be easily swayed by others. But still, he had to try. “Can… can I ask you why you’re so against this? The prince? He wants to meet you, he’s looking throughout the entire kingdom. It doesn’t matter that you’re not a princess, I don’t think.”

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, clearly letting his words turn over in her head. Still, Harry could tell by the set of her jaw and the fierceness in her eyes that she already had an answer that wasn’t likely to change. “I can’t, Harry. Don’t you think… don’t you think I’ve thought of that, already? That I could have gone to the castle, and he would have known exactly who I was, and that this…” Hermione gestured at the house around them, “this would all be nothing but a distant memory?”

“Then, if you want to--”

“You don’t understand,” Hermione almost snapped. “It isn’t as _easy_ as that, Harry! I might have liked him well enough for an evening. But that doesn’t mean we could… could _be_ together. Whatever the prince is saying about looking in every house… his father would never allow him to be with someone who wasn’t a princess. Besides,” she laughed, bitterly. “I’m not even noble. I am _no one_ , Harry. I wouldn’t be able to lead this country, let alone put up with his… _attitude_.”

Harry threw his arms in the air at this, finally sick of hearing that. “You keep saying that, Hermione, like you didn’t have an amazing evening right up until the moment you found out who he was. Who you _thought_ he was, because clearly if you hated the prince so much you would have _known_ that this man was him, don’t you think? And, for that matter, stop saying that I don’t understand. You don’t know anything about what I understand. At least,” he paused, bitterness and pain thick in his own voice now. “At least he’s a _man_ and you’re a woman.”

Hermione had opened her mouth to snap back at him, then paused, thrown by the statement. “I-- _what_? Harry, what aren’t you telling me?”

Harry groaned and dropped his head down into his hands, scrubbing at the skin of his face and hating himself for mentioning it. “While you were off looking at books with the prince, I was dancing with… with Theo,” it was the first time he’d said the man’s name out loud and it hurt, grated at his tongue and demanded his attention. “We danced, and then… on the balcony… he…” Harry sighed, dropped the volume of his voice to nearly a whisper, “we kissed. And Hermione, it was… perfect.” 

“Oh,” Hermione said, clearly thinking over this statement for a moment. “Harry, if you were happy, surely that’s--”

“Hermione,” Harry cut her off with a sharp glare. “He was obviously a noble, someone from a rich family who will need to marry a rich lady to have rich babies to carry on his rich family name, and…” Harry shook his head, sighing deeply. “Rich boys can do whatever they want, but happiness like that doesn’t get to last. It just doesn’t. You might say you’re no one, but at least you knew who your parents were. At least you have a family name to give.” 

In an instant, Hermione’s arms were around him, holding him tightly. “Oh, Harry,” she whispered, and her voice reminded him of that night all those years ago. “I’m so sorry. Soon this will all be over, I promise. They’ll realize that the princess has disappeared and… and the prince will move on. We will _all_ move on-” 

Before Hermione could finish her sentence, they heard a noise from the front of the house. Snape was leaving, tucking the shoe back into his satchel. “I _said_ , I am sorry Madam, but the shoe does not fit either of your daughters. Unfortunately, that means that our business is done here.”

Hermione reached down to clasp Harry’s hand in what felt like an apology. As soon as Snape was gone, they’d be free. Snape had reached the road by then, and met back up with the group of soldiers and king’s men that had been waiting for him. It was almost over. Harry let out a sigh of relief, and they waited a moment and then clambered to their feet.

“What’s that?” he heard, over the wind, and Harry froze, hand clutched tight in Hermione’s.

“Don’t move,” he whispered to her, and then moved slightly so that her small body was behind his larger frame. Just in case. 

“You there!” Someone called, and before Harry could turn and run, the voice caught up to him and his heart froze in his chest. 

Oh no.

This wasn’t good.

Harry stood as still as he could, but it didn’t matter. Theo and Snape were approaching them now, talking in hushed tones. “... definitely a girl…” Harry thought he heard Theo say.

“Excuse me,” Theo said, as they approached. And then, Harry’s eyes and Theo’s eyes met, and the other man stopped dead in his tracks.

“Nott,” Snape snapped, when he realized that Theo had frozen up completely. “What on _earth_ is wrong?” 

Theo didn’t respond, only opened his mouth and closed it again, eyes locked with Harry.

“Bloody children, all of them,” Snape murmured, and then turned back to Harry. Harry was standing in the shadows of a large tree, and Snape was still at least ten feet away. Maybe they wouldn’t see her, Harry thought lamely. Maybe it would be fine. “Do you have a girl out here with you?” Snape asked, and Harry forced himself out of the spell of Theo’s eyes and glanced around, as if looking for the same girl Snape was. 

“Girl?” he asked, forcing ignorance into his voice.

“Yes,” Snape said, clearly irritated. “My companion here says that he saw a girl over here. By the order of the King of this land, if you are hiding someone you must reveal her. The punishment is--”

“No punishment needed,” Harry heard Hermione say, and his breath caught in his chest once again. _No_ , _what was she thinking?_ “Sir,” she added, sarcasm clear in her own voice as she stepped out from behind Harry’s shadow and a few steps closer to Snape. “May I ask what all of this is about?”

Snape huffed, but turned back to Theo to acknowledge that the younger man was right. Theo seemed to have shaken himself slightly out of his confusion, and was now approaching them again, alongside Snape. “We are looking for a princess,” Snape stated, and Hermione let out a soft, incredulous laugh. 

“Well, I’m afraid you won’t find one here. I am just a servant girl, along with my brother here,” she added, shooting Harry a look that screamed _run with it_.

Finally, Snape stopped walking, now only a few feet away from them both. His eyes narrowed in something of a warning. “Were you at the Prince’s Ball?”

Hermione paused, as if she was pretending to think about it. “I can’t see how I ever would have time for a ball, Sir, not with all of the work there is to do around here.”

Theo cleared his throat softly, and they all looked in his direction. “Put the shoe on her, Severus,” he said, voice quiet and even and careful. He was looking at Harry again, and even though Harry knew that Theo didn’t remember his name, he was sure from the look in the other man’s eyes that he remembered everything else.

Snape nodded. “Your foot, young lady,” he commanded, and Hermione glanced up to Harry for reassurance and took one of his hands for balance before she stepped out of her shoe and offered her foot up to the man in front of her.

The slipper slid on effortlessly, fitting her foot as though it had been made for it. Some of the other soldiers had come over at the commotion, and even Madam Patil and the twins were watching with their heads sticking through the kitchen window. The audience, Snape included, let out a collective gasp at the sight, and Hermione’s shoulders drooped in resignation, just for a second. 

“Well,” she stated, managing to throw indifference into her voice. “I hardly see what this proves. It’s not as though every foot in the world is a different size, is it? I’m sure the maiden you’re looking for was just a similar height to myself. Hopefully that helps you narrow it-”

“This is her,” Theo said, cutting Hermione off smoothly, though still looking directly at Harry as he spoke. “I caught a glimpse of her as they-as _she_ was leaving the ball. I’d recognize that hair anywhere.” 

Harry couldn’t help himself, his eyes were stuck to Theo’s face and every fibre of his being yearned to reach out, to grab the man’s lapel and pull their bodies together and-

Then Theo looked his way, trailing his eyes across Harry’s body and Harry had to suppress a full body shiver at the motion. He seemed stuck, for a moment, and Harry wondered what was going through his head.

“Both of you,” he finally said, gesturing to the two of them. “You’re coming to the castle with us.” 

Hermione’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You-you can’t just… _order_ us to… to do whatever you want-” 

Severus raised one dark eyebrow. “Actually, _Sir_ Nott most certainly _can_. And if you do not comply, you will be obstructing justice.” He held his hand out for the shoe, and Hermione frowned at him again but took it off anyways and passed it back over. 

Theo sighed, and rubbed at his temples before speaking. “Look,” he said, eyes darting between Harry and Hermione now. “I’m not going to force you to do anything outside of your will. Dra-the Prince just wants to speak with you. After that conversation, you will be free to do as you like. But, if you don’t come with us now, I’ll simply tell the Prince where you live, and he’ll show up here. And that will be a much bigger headache for _all_ of us, trust me.”

Harry glanced back at the house where the twins and the other servants were gathered around the doorway, watching the proceedings. He had a sudden, horrible, fleeting thought that Hermione was going to leave him forever. Even though she had said this wasn’t what she wanted, that she couldn’t do it, Harry wasn’t entirely convinced. If the Prince didn’t care who she was, why should she care? If he really was someone who could make her happy, truly happy, wasn’t that a chance she should take? Even if she had never intended on marrying a prince, Harry also knew she was so much better than this place, than this life. If she had a chance to leave, he needed her to take it. To know she was safe.

Even without him.

“Hermione,” he said softly, turning towards her and catching her hands in his. “We should go with them. Let’s just… see what he says, alright? And then this whole thing will be over and we can come home,” that was a lie, he knew, but he hoped Hermione wouldn’t catch it. She said she didn’t want to marry the Prince, insisted upon it. But then, she had always been stubborn.

Hermione huffed at him slightly but looked back to Theo, and then to Harry. Harry almost thought he could see the gears turning in her head and he narrowed his eyes at her in suspicion. Eventually, she nodded, once. “Yes,” she said, more to him, before turning back to Severus and Theo, never once letting go of Harry’s hands. “Yes, we will go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one?! So soon!  
> Yes. This fic is still spiralling incredibly rapidly out of control (nearly 25,000 words and counting, and my outline extends every single goddamn day) so I figured, hey, why not, here's another one!
> 
> Thanks to everyone for your comments / support! Always love to hear your thoughts or feelings. And all the love to nyphadoraholtzmann and theskiddlyboop for their invaluable brainstorming / betaing / general support.


	4. Happily Ever After... or Something to that Effect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _gonna soften the blow, soften the blow and give it up_   
>  _I saw the surprise, the look in your eyes, I gave it up_   
>  _gonna be who I am, be who I am, and give it up_   
>  _I traveled the way_   
>  _wait for me, wait for me_   
>  _it's all better now, it's all better now_   
>  _wait for me, wait for me_
> 
> \- kings of leon, _wait for me_

They didn’t go directly to the castle.

Somehow, and Harry wasn’t entirely sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing, he had ended up in a carriage with just Hermione and Theo. Before they left, Theo had a hushed conversation with Snape and then, once they were moving, looked between Harry and Hermione before explaining.

“It’s quite late,” he began, hesitantly. “Draco is still up, of course, but… I thought it might be for the best if the three of us went back to my house for the night. We can, uh, maybe have a discussion about all of this. And I have quite an abundance of spare clothes, if you want to borrow anything.”

Harry glanced down at that moment and realized, somewhat ashamedly, that his shirt was streaked with soot and coal, and Hermione had a line of flour behind her ear. His face burned with heat at the realization--the last time he had seen Theo, he had been in elegant and perfectly fitting clothes, he had looked almost regal. There was a reason Hermione had gained the nickname the Mystery Princess, after all. And now he looked… well, he looked like Harry. Like the blacksmith he was, and he wanted to grab Hermione’s hand and run until he could pretend that Theo would only ever remember him as worthy, and not as himself.

Hermione, on the other hand, took this comment with rage rather than with pity, her eyes flashing and her hands dropping to her hips. “If I am not good enough for the prince exactly as I am, then I think you should take me back right this instant. I am not going to change for some… some prince who’s too good to meet with his people, or even care about what’s happening to them, so-”

Theo held up his hands in defense, shaking his head to try and slow her down and yet smiling, just a bit, at her response. “Your reputation precedes you,” he admitted, with a shrug. “He warned me that if I found the right girl you might be, ah, I believe the word was feisty. The prince, I think, wouldn’t care if you showed up in a flour sack. Actually, he might enjoy that…”

Hermione cleared her throat, and Theo laughed, though it was more like a snicker really.

“The point is that you still will have to walk through the castle. And while the prince may not care, it might be easier for all of us,” Theo paused to glance very quickly over to Harry, “if we stuck with the ‘mystery princess’ label just a little longer. But, of course, it’s up to you. Either way, we’ll stay the night at mine and deal with the prince tomorrow.”

Hermione considered this for a moment before she nodded in acquiescence. Harry wondered, briefly, how many more crises she was going to have before the morning arrived.

“What did you say your name was?” Hermione asked, turning to Theo with a raised eyebrow, her arm now crossed over her chest as she leaned slightly back into the comfortable carriage seat.

Theo raised a brow, and Harry wondered again if them meeting might cause more problems than it did solutions. He hadn’t actually thought it through, as he’d been so convinced he’d never see Theo again it didn’t even seem worth considering, compared to other things. But, really, the two of them might be… dangerous.

“I didn’t,” Theo quipped, with that same small smile pulling at his lips and at something deep in the pit of Harry’s stomach. “Sir Theo Nott, at your service” he added, extending a hand to Hermione in a mock regal greeting.

Hermione eyed it but took it anyways. “Hermione Granger,” she introduced, and then paused. “Not a princess,” she reinforced, as she removed her hand. And then Theo offered his hand to Harry. As their eyes met, Harry’s blood froze and his heart skipped and he had to take a breath before he could answer.

“Harry,” he managed to say, sliding his own hand into Theo’s, once again amazed at the feel of the man’s warm skin against his own. “Just Harry.”

Theo swallowed visibly and shook Harry’s hand, and they held on for just a moment until Hermione gasped. “Oh, Harry,” she breathed, in the voice that he knew like the back of his hand. “Is this him?”

Harry pulled his hand back from Theo’s quickly and tucked it under his arm, sitting back in the carriage seat. Theo was frowning now, and his eyes didn’t leave Harry’s, even though he responded to Hermione. “I hope so,” he said, and he was clearly trying to be glib but it didn’t quite land and Harry’s heart flipped over in his chest again.

This wasn’t good.

“Yes,” he admitted, and Hermione hummed softly, but said nothing else.

“Why--” Theo’s voice caught and he frowned, looking away from Harry and out the window of the carriage instead. “Why couldn’t we remember your names?” he asked, directly now though still not facing them. “It almost felt like I wasn’t supposed to remember you, and Draco has been going mad over the fact that he couldn’t picture your face,” Theo added, looking over to Hermione, clearly determining that she was safe ground.

“It’s,” Hermione paused, frowned a little. They had never discussed this, never planned for the possibility of being found. How could you explain what had happened to them? “Would you believe me if I said fairy magic?”

Theo snorted, an obvious no.

“Me neither,” she mumbled, and then shrugged. “Unfortunately, I’d like to know just as much as you.”

Before Theo could respond again, the carriage clanked to a halt and he glanced out the window.

“We’re here.”

* * *

Nott Manor was impressive, large and imposing and grey, from the road. It was surrounded by wrought iron gates that the carriage had gone through and even in the dark Harry could see a sprawling expansive grounds. Not as intricately manicured as the palace, and from what he could tell there weren’t any peacocks here, but it still looked beautiful even in the dark. It was different than the palace, though, and Harry was struck that it almost seemed… empty, even though it was surely teeming with servants.

Theo led them inside and they didn’t see a single person as they wound through stairways and down corridors. Hermione was clearly tracking their turns, at first, and then even she gave up. Not that running would do them any good--they had no money, no way to leave, and no place to go if they wanted to. Still, it was a survival mechanism, Harry suspected, and then he had to push away the throb of pain at the reminder that Hermione was still just trying to survive.

She deserved so much more.

Finally they stopped at a large set of doors and Theo pushed them open, leading Hermione and Harry into what was clearly a bedroom suite, though it didn’t seem like his. The bed was back against the far wall, a large four postered monstrosity with corresponding drapery. There was no fire in the hearth and the room seemed almost stale.

“Right,” Theo said, heading straight for the wardrobe and pulling it open. “Hermione, you’re about the same size as my mother, so, whichever you prefer,” he gestured, and stepped back.

Hermione frowned.

“Won’t… won’t your mother mind?”

Theo shrugged. “I mean, it’s not as though she’s wearing them. She died seven years ago. The black death. Plus, she would have liked you.”

He said it so callously that Harry almost stumbled backwards. It was the same plague that had killed both of their parents. The fact that he could say it as though it were the weather…

“And your father?” Hermione pressed, and Theo’s eyes darkened, just slightly.

“Also dead,” he said, though his posture had changed enough that Harry could tell they were treading on uneven ground. He didn’t elaborate more and Harry didn’t press, not right now (though he filed it away for later, because something about Theo felt important in this moment, and he couldn’t stop himself). Instead he looked between the three of them, marvelling for a moment about the difference of circumstance. Each of them orphans, and yet.

And yet.

“Right,” Theo said, as Hermione finally settled on a deep emerald green dress that, somehow, seemed to be the exact right level of dress for meeting the prince who had been looking for you for a week. “Harry, I’ll find you something from my things tomorrow morning. It’s rather late now. How about we find each of you a guest room?”

Harry paused at that and winced, looking over to Hermione as he realized something. Since that first day she had turned up in his room, they had never spent a night apart. But, it would be weird to sleep together, here, in this big house. Right?

In the end, their rooms were next door to one another and just down the hall from Theo’s. Each of the rooms alone felt bigger than their room plus the rest of the cellar in the Patil’s house, which certainly wouldn’t be considered a small house. Hermione went into the first room and Harry already felt the distance begin to stretch between them. As he turned to go into his own room, Theo caught his arm.

“Harry,” Theo started, and his voice was thick and the blood drained from Harry’s head.

“I… I should really get to bed,” Harry mumbled, forcing himself not to look at Theo’s lips, not to let himself live in this fantasy for one more day.

Theo’s grip on his arm tightened. “You were never going to come and find me,” he finally stated, and if there was hurt in his voice it had been locked up and buried, and instead his tone was cool and detached. As if he had taken that raw emotion from only a minute ago and dunked it into a pot of water, dousing the heat and solidifying whatever they could have had into this.

Into nothing.

Harry tried not to wince, instead he looked up, met Theo’s harsh eyes and he nodded in resignation. “It’s… it’s better that way. I just want Hermione to be happy, Theo, and then I’m going to disappear again. You… I’m no one, Theo. I’m not right for you--”

Theo laughed and pulled his arm back, stepping out of Harry’s grip and his heat and shaking his head. “Right for me,” he parroted back, the words emotionless but the method cruel. “Glad you know your place then.”

And then he was gone, and Harry was alone.

The big room was too big, and Harry didn’t stop to think before he turned to Hermione’s door and slipped inside. She was sitting in the middle of the large bed looking small and lost and he crawled in beside her, wrapped his arms around her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his heart aching, wondering what he’d done by not protecting her more, by letting them get involved. “I’m so sorry.”

But Hermione, safe in his arms and in the potential for a different ending, shook her head. “I’m not,” she whispered, and together in the large bed they both managed to fall asleep.

* * *

The next day came faster than Harry could have expected, though he supposed that may have been the benefit of a good mattress. They were both still up early, bodies trained to wake with the sun, and Hermione had an excellent giggle over the thought of the Patils trying to make their own breakfast.

Clothes for Harry had turned up at some point in the night, draped over an armchair in Hermione’s room. They fit him perfectly, and when he emerged from the lavatory he found Hermione in the borrowed dress, standing in front of a mirror and unable to look away from the reflection in between.

“I’m having a moment of temporary insanity,” she admitted, as he came over to tie up the back of the gown.

“Oh?” Harry pressed, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Of course this isn’t going to work,” Hermione began, tentative. “I’m no princess, or even a lady. One… one night… one kiss, well. That can’t compensate for that, but,”

Harry’s smile grew. “But…?” he pressed, as he finished her dress and smoothed her hair back down over her back.

“But, well, it’s rather fun to pretend, isn’t it?” she asked, gesturing towards the mirror. She did look regal, stunning in the dark green and a necklace that had appeared along with Harry’s things and matched it perfectly.

Harry managed to smile still for her and nod, and then reached out to take his hand. “Come on,” he said, pulling her from the safety of their borrowed room and into the unknown of their borrowed lives. “The prince is waiting.”

* * *

Theo was waiting for them in the dining room, which they managed to find without too much effort. There were plates spread across the table piled high with food, and Harry and Hermione awkwardly sat down across from him. 

“Now,” Theo began, as he loaded up his plate and began to eat. “I’d like to discuss your intentions with the prince.”

It was clear he was speaking to Hermione. While he had glanced at Harry as they came in, he had done little more than that and Harry did his best to tamp down the hurt.

This was for the best.

Hermione scoffed audibly as she spread marmalade across a piece of toast. “I have no intentions. In fact, as you might have noticed, I was trying not to be found.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Please,” he said, clearly unimpressed with this response. “You came to the ball. You spent the evening with him. You clearly have intentions.”

Hermione flushed but did not look away. “I was not aware of his identity.”

If Theo had any thoughts about this frankly ridiculous statement, he didn’t share them. Though, there was a slight uptick of his lips that Harry decided could be classified as amusement.

“And besides, as I already said, I have no intentions with the prince. We’re poorly matched and one night of conversation cannot change that. Once he sees me for who I truly am, he’ll realize the absurdity of the situation and his mind will clear, I’m sure.”

“Well,” Theo said, leaning back in his chair. His expression was unreadable and Harry tried not to care too much about that fact. “You’re right, at least, about the fact that you barely know the man. Finished?” He gestured to their half empty plates and then stood, leaving the table with a glance to them that indicated they should follow. 

* * *

The carriage ride to the castle was uncomfortably quiet. Theo spent almost all of it looking out the window, and Hermione was obsessively smoothing over the stitching of her dress. Harry wanted to break the silence, to try and figure out what Hermione was thinking and feeling and what he could do to help. He knew she was worried and stressed but with the bad air between him and Theo there just didn’t seem to be space to discuss it. 

And then there was Theo himself. Harry couldn’t seem to keep his eyes fully off the man, the way he draped himself on the bench as though he was indifferent to the entire situation, and yet there was a stiffness in his neck, and his hands were clenched into tight balls, and Harry ached to smooth a thumb over Theo’s knuckles, to take back what he had done.

To leap.

The ground, he knew, was a long way down.

* * *

Finally, they arrived at the castle. Theo led the way up the steps, and Hermione clutched at Harry’s arm as they went. He squeezed the top of her hand in reassurance and leaned closer so Theo couldn’t hear him whisper.

“I know you’re going to make the right choice, and I’ll support you no matter what. But, Hermione, please don’t forget that you’re allowed to be happy too.”

Hermione managed a weak, strained smile at his comment. “I am happy,” she said, and it was a lie but he appreciated it nonetheless.

Theo stopped them inside the entrance hall and turned to face them both. “He knows I’m coming, he should be here any-“

Theo trailed off at the sound of shoes on the polished marble floors, and Harry felt Hermione’s sharp intake of breath before he saw the prince.

Draco was clearly dressed down this morning, but Harry was sure that the man’s outfit was still worth more than everything Harry owned. Still, despite the more laid back clothes, he looked anything but relaxed.

“Theo!” he half-barked, his eyes focused on his wrists where he was trying to do up his cufflinks. “Why didn’t you return last night with Severus and the rest of the-“

And that was when Draco looked up, and his eyes caught Hermione’s, and she dropped Harry’s arm and he was unmoored and she drifted forward, just a step, maybe two, driven by some unseen force.

Draco was speechless, and Hermione looked ethereal, and Harry had a sudden flash of the two of them standing, hand in hand, matching crowns and matching smiles and then the world shifted back and everything was the same but different, and he knew there was no going back from this.

“You’re here,” Draco said, and his voice seemed flat but his eyes were alive.

Hermione, for her part, managed to step forward once more. “Not for lack of trying,” she retorted, but her voice was lighter than the words and Harry watched as they surveyed each other.

Draco’s brow creased at the implications. “Why can’t I remember your name?” he asked.

Hermione bit her lip and glanced down at the floor. “‘ _There are more things in heaven and Earth, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,_ ’”

Instead of responding, Draco closed the distance between them and grasped both of Hermione’s hands in his. “Nevermind,” he dismissed with a shake of his head. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters. I’ll let my father know and we can begin wedding preparations right away-“

That broke the spell, and Hermione blinked and then pulled her hands back from his, taking a step back and away. “No,” she said, and Draco gaped at her.

“Excuse me?”

Hermione sighed and Harry watched as she clasped her hands together. “This is why I didn’t come,” she admitted, under her breath. “I’m not here to marry you, Draco. I’m here to talk about… about _this_. You don’t even know my name, you don’t know anything _about_ me, and you still want to marry me? How on earth is that healthy?”

Draco seemed stunned by her revelation, though he let his hands drop to his sides. “Who are you?” he pressed, and Hermione seemed defeated at the question.

“No one,” she admitted, with a sad soft smile. “Hermione Granger. No one at all. You may have been able to believe your… your little mystery princess fairy tale, Draco, but the reality is that I’m little more than a scullery maid, and you’re a prince, and that is the end of any story long before it has a chance to begin.”

Draco looked like he wanted to respond, but then he glanced away from Hermione and his eyes landed on Harry for the first time. “And who on earth are you?”

Harry glanced quickly to Theo, though he found no reassurance in the action. Faced only with what he had, he shrugged halfheartedly. “Also no one, your majesty. Harry.”

This answer was clearly not suitable, for Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly and he crossed his arms, and Harry couldn’t imagine for a moment how Hermione had missed his identity when every ounce of his body language screamed _royalty_. “You look familiar,” Draco pressed, turning to Theo for confirmation but finding none. “Who is your family?”

Harry winced at the question but he did not back down. “Like I said, I’m just Harry. I have no family.”

Draco scoffed. “That’s nonsense. Everyone has a family. Who are they?”

“I’m not lying to you,” Harry snapped, frustrated by the useless line of questioning. “I don’t know who my family are. My parents died of the black death sixteen years ago and they left nothing behind. I’m no one. Just. Harry.”

At this, Hermione’s brows raised slightly. “The black death?” she questioned, and Harry frowned.

“Yes, Hermione, you know this,” he reminded her, lifting a hand to rub at his temples.

Hermione shook her head. “No, they didn’t,”

Harry balked at this, whipping his head around to stare at her. Hermione had spoken plainly, as simply as if she was correcting his grammar (which she had done her fair share of, in their time together). But, this was more than that. “What?” he sputtered, shaking his head. “What do you mean, they _didn’t_?”

Hermione nibbled on her lip but didn’t back down, all three of the men were watching her when she spoke next. “Well. I mean, I suppose it’s possible it was just a… a fluke. But my parents died in the early years of that particular bout of plague-- _seven_ years ago. Your parents would have died nine or ten years before that, and while Diagon has had the plague before, it had been relatively dormant here for some time, nearly twenty years. Actually, it had relatively cleared out of most of the area, so the resurgence itself was strange enough that an earlier occurrence would have been noteworthy. But… It’s possible I’m wrong,” Hermione hedged, though the tone of her voice implied that she didn’t think that was the case. “Maybe if I check the library…”

Harry shook his head at her. There was just no way. “Hermione, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I don’t know much about my parents but I know they died of the black death and I know they died when I was a baby. So, you just have it wrong.”

Theo was looking more closely on Harry as well, and Harry wasn’t sure if he was glad or uncomfortable with the return of the man’s focused stare. “And you’re sure no one has ever called you anything but Harry?”

Harry threw his hands in the air. “I’m not sure what the three of you are on about. I’m just Harry. Harry the blacksmith. Harry the tradesman. Harry the potter, I’m _just Harry_ -“

“Holy shit,” Theo interrupted, spinning to face Draco, watching as the blonde mans face lost the last traces of colour it may have held. “Holy _shit_ , Draco-“

“What?” Harry asked, lost in the meaningful looks the men were exchanging. “What are you-“

“Do you think…?” Theo pressed again, stepping forward. Hermione was watching with interest but Draco was deep in thought, one hand pressed over his mouth, studying Harry very intently.

“You,” he said, with a long pause and a long stare. “You’re not _just_ anything. You’re Harry Potter.”

Harry shook his head. “No, no. I’m a potter. As in, I make pots-“

“No,” Draco said, voice firm. “You are Harry James Potter. _You_ are the rightful heir to the Kingdom of Godric’s Hollow. And up until this moment, you were _supposed_ to be dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy almost-birthday to me! a chapter for you all as a gift! i think that's how this works! who knows!
> 
> more coming hopefully in the not-too-far-away-future! who needs adulting! 26 sounds useless anyways!


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